Of his three sons, only one survived. Joseph Horowitz aspired to become a violin player, but his hand was damaged for life during the pogrom in Odessa. So instead he became a music teacher, and developed a method, a unique method to memorize long passages of music, by practicing it back to front.
His son Benjamin Horowitz, who became a conductor, took that method one step further. Instead of the traditional way of playing through the passage repeatedly, you would commit it to memory, or rather to your subconscious mind, by means of performing it every night before falling asleep—without holding the instrument in your hands. He was a notorious spendthrift, and the only inheritance he left his daughter Natasha was his impossible dream, the dream of rising to stardom.
So mom prepared herself for a promising career of a struggling musician. Dad supported her in every way. He had to attend recordings and rehearsal sessions and to watch her practice, plan programs, and cope with acoustics, conductors, and orchestras. For him this was no easy task, because mom had great ambitions, and being on the verge of success, they were matched by equally great disappointments.
And then, then I was born.
Mom gave up her recitals, and instead started giving piano lessons. Slowly, her dreams started to fade. The family moved to a small apartment, where the piano, as I remember it, occupied half the space of the living room.
The other half turned, eventually, into clutter. It housed my clunky baby stroller and my rusty tricycle—because who knows, maybe we would need it someday—as well as an out-of-date encyclopedia, which was incomplete because one of the volumes was missing, and disorderly stacks of notebooks and sheet music, which leaned against the walls.
The piano towered over everything. It seemed so massive, so out of place that you had to squeeze around it, or else crawl underneath the belly of the thing.
But when mom played it, all that did not matter. The walls vanished and so did the clutter, because it was so riveting to watch her. You could see her long, delicate fingers as they went flying over the keys, to the point of turning, magically, into a blur. Her hands became transparent, and her ring, I remember, turned into a glow. She was air, she was music! Even when she stopped playing, those strings inside were still reverberating.
Twenty-two minutes to one.
At this instant, standing here over the pages of the letter, I remember that sound, and it can—even now, so many years later—take my breath away: the sweet, intricate sound of harmony. It was with this sound playing softly in the back of my mind that I went back to reading:
As I told you, Ben, tongues are wagging all over town, saying that the last thing Anita was interested in was music, nor was it harmony. No, dear. What impressed her was the polished surface, the ebony color, the ivory white keys and the brushed black keys, all of which could serve her (or so she thought) as the classiest, most perfect backdrop for the grand entrance at her wedding.
This was the most perfect instrument she could imagine, by which she could finally beat her enemy: your mother. By a strange reversal, your mom’s own signature piece would now be used against her.
And so the piano was transported, at great pain and, so they tell me, at great expense. It was placed on a special platform, and the whole apparatus prepared to be wheeled, at exactly the right moment, from behind a curtain.
It would go right onto the center stage of the wedding hall. Everything was rehearsed that day, and carefully timed. Fog machines were placed discretely between the white, tapered legs, ready to emit clouds of dense vapors, so the scene could become mysterious.
The top was polished to perfection. And as the right moment approached, Anita mounted it, striking this pose, then that—until finally relaxing into one that she must have considered graceful, yet seductive.
To avoid distractions, this woman wore no ornament other than her cleavage. Leaning back on her elbow, she let the strap fall away to reveal the full curve of her shoulder. There she laid, one leg crossed over the other with the knee bent, right in front of the plump, rosy breast.
She examined the view in her hand mirror, from here, from there, and enhanced the pose even further, by scooping up her gown, draping the folds—just so—and then, pointing the high heel directly at the surface.
Your father who—as you know—had never played an instrument in his life, was made to sit on the bench next to the piano, facing her. I had warned him against playing the fool, but then who can blame him. My, my, the poor dear must have been in the stupor of love. Men are liable to make mistakes at such moments.
He was instructed to play—or at least, pretend to do so—by throwing his hands dramatically into the air, in accordance with a song, which would be played by a hired musician, somewhere in the back, behind the scenes. The song would open with the unforgettable words, “Look into my eyes,” and would go on to promise, “You will see, what you mean to me...”
From what I hear, a hush fell among the guests when, emerging from a cloud of smoke, the piano became visible on stage. There was only a slight squeal, escaping from the wheels under the platform—but that was covered, tactfully, by the song. “Search your heart,” it pleaded. “Search your soul. And when you find me there, you will search no more...”
Your father, as I said, had a fear of heights. I am told that he seemed a bit uneasy at the edge of the stage. Behind his back, down below, there were faint sounds of waiters moving swiftly around the tables, setting china plates around the flower arrangements. The place was buzzing with whispers, which may have distracted him.
At one point he rubbed his eyes, and seemed itchy, for some reason, to take off his glasses.
Most of the time, his hands flailed in the air, following the music dutifully, just as instructed. But then—when a puff of smoke suddenly burst under him—he stopped waving altogether and instead, started clearing his throat.
Accounts of what happened next seem to be conflicting. I am going to give you the best approximation of the dialogue. Make of it what you will.
Stop that, said Anita, and she said it, somehow, without moving her lips. To which he said, What? And she said, Not now! Don’t cough! And from the corner of her mouth she hissed, Just smile, dear! Smile! Nu, he tried, as best he could, to do what she asked, and managed to cough up a smile, which is not an easy thing to do, especially when all those guests are staring at you.
She said, What kind of a smile was that? Stop it! Which slipped up, somehow, from the tight space between her teeth. And she went on to cry, Look at me! Look at me now! Straight into my eyes!
Which he did try, really. He tried it while rubbing his eyes and popping them and saying, Where? Where? I cannot see a thing... Damn smoke!
A whisper of this entire exchange could be heard over the music—but luckily, only by the those closest to the stage. The rest of the guests were swept away by the song, which brought everyone to tears, most of all Anita, because you see, it was so very touching.
And they nearly missed the point, right there at the end, when your father pushed back his bench in a sharp, and some say rebellious motion. He wiped the fog, quite irritably, from his lenses, and stood there for a second, a breath away from the ledge. Oy. Perhaps he did not see it.
Then, to the sound of “Everything I do, I do it for you,” he fell headlong into the crowd.
It is here that I turn the lamp off and step back from the desk, resisting an urge to crumple the letter.
Much of it, especially the sentences describing Anita, I cannot judge at all, because gossip can turn anyone, even the most innocent girl, into something she is not. As to the sentences describing my father, they seem so out of character with the way I know him.
The fact that he agreed—or at least, did not disagree—to play the fool in his own wedding seems strange to me. So is the fact that he fell off the stage. What was he trying to do, kill himself?
A few days after this ceremony I received an urgent call from someone in Santa Monica Hospital, who said I should come see him at once. Wh
ich is why I am standing here, in what used to be my room, counting and recounting the crooked blinds, the shadows twisting out of them, so slowly, and the hours remaining until the break of dawn.
Seven minutes to one.
And now, out of everything I have read, the only words I wish to retain come from an older letter. At the moment they go turning slowly in my mind, making no sense whatsoever. If this is a secret code, I cannot find a way to crack it.
I have no one to blame for all this but myself.
Chapter 2 Father And Son
As Told by Ben
Today at the hospital, Anita cannot get enough of being called Mrs. Kaminsky. Her eyes twinkle with joy. Intoxicated by her newly found power, the power of a married woman, she seems to have no idea what to do with it, yet. I notice that it is with great exuberance that she gets the pain drugs and the crutches for my father.
And so, around noon, once the release papers are signed, I lift my father from the wheelchair and help him into the car. We arrive home after a long drive, during which nothing is said. He barely looks at her, nor does he look at me. I suppose he is trying to arrange and rearrange in his head what led to the accident. Perhaps he can sense a certain tension between us—or else, he may be dazed. The morphine is about to wear off.
I do not mind the silence, honestly. After ten years of absence I have nothing to say to this man, whom I hardly recognize. He looks older. No, not older. Just old.
I wonder what happened to him. I do not mean the irritation of the mucous membranes, which might have happened because of the cloud of smoke onstage at their wedding. At least, that is what they said at the hospital. And I do not mean the bruises on his face, or the cast on his leg, or the brace on his back, or the crutches. It is not just the injuries. I mean, really, how come he inhabits a different body now.
Then I wonder the same about me.
Where are we, father and son? Have we been erased, somehow, as if we were figures drawn in dust, where some grains here, some there have been blown away? Not much is left, barely a trace of how I admired him—and later, how I raged.
So I go through the motions of being a son.
I carry my father into the building, up a flight of stairs, then walk him into the apartment step by step, first to the bathroom, where very sternly, he refuses any help.
“I have had it,” he mutters to himself, “up to here.”
Well, you cannot win an argument against someone this stubborn, and so I stay outside, as if I were a guard.
Then, before I can breathe—bang!—there comes a loud sound, and I push the door open and see the floor, and him lying there in the puddle, with a look on his face that is so surprised, so deeply miserable, because of the shock, you see, and because of losing control, and having pissed, as he fell, all over himself.
Anita plays the devoted wife. She rushes into the bedroom to bring out a change of clothes. Meanwhile I push the wheelchair, folded, into the living room, over some clutter, which is scattered all around the dusty floor, and then around the piano.
It stands here majestically, blocking your view, as large and out of place as ever, as if it has never been moved away, or used, not too long ago, as a prop for a grand entrance in some wedding.
The air in this place smells of decay, and the silence between us is heavy. I reach the old sofa and push it back a bit, making space so I can unfold the wheelchair. The throne is ready, and it takes a few tries until my father is seated in it.
Now there he is, holding the crutch in his hand, as if it were a royal scepter, and his face is blank again. That moment of humility, when he was vulnerable, is now gone, and I cannot care less that he is back to himself, back to ignoring me. There is my father, and so far, he makes no move.
So in turn, I pace in and out of the corner of the living room, determined to avoid sitting next to him. On a whim, then, I decide to find me a place on the floor, and I throw myself into the shadow of the piano—right under its belly—which is now my cave, my little home, just the way it used to be when I was a six years old. Only now I have to slump, and even bend my head a little if I want, still, to fit inside.
From down here I can see Anita: her ankles, really, and bare feet as she comes, hips swaying, across the floor. And now there she stands, between me and my dad.
She spreads a kitchen towel across his lap, on top of which she places a large tray. Sliding across, from one edge to another is a cup, a porcelain tea cup in the act of finding its balance. It has a flowery design, which I dislike. I do not remember it, so it does not belong here. This woman must have brought it with her, when she moved in with my father. From this angle, I can see him between her legs.
There is a wisp of steam twisting there, in the cool air between them. I close my eyes and take in her fragrance and the aroma of the freshly brewed tea. I imagine the beginning of a hairline crack, right at the joint where the porcelain handle meets the shapely body.
I can hear my father sipping, and his spoon clinking, clanking against the lip of the cup. I can hear the rustling of her dress as she must be bending again, her chest over him, this time to pick the empty cup, which she slams—without hesitation—right on top of me. I mean, on top of the piano.
And somewhere in the background there is also a tick-tock sound. It is faint—but it makes me count, makes me mark time.
I imagine it is just his heart, or perhaps the distant beat of a metronome. Mom had one, I remember that. She used it to keep a constant tempo. I listen to the sound, but what I cannot hear—what is missing in this place—is her music. The sweet, intricate sound of harmony.
My father points his crutch at the piano.
“The cup,” he tells her. “Take it, take that thing. Don’t leave it there.”
Anita picks it up on her way to the kitchen, where a tea kettle starts shrieking; which reminds her to turn back and ask cheerfully, “More tea, anyone?”
“No!” we cry, almost in unison. “Absolutely not! No more tea!”
Once she is gone he turns to me and, to my astonishment, he says, “I am so blessed.” Which makes me suspect, right there and then, that something is not quite right, I mean, not only with his body but maybe with his head, too.
And so I cannot help asking, with a chill in my voice, “Blessed? You? In your condition?”
My father looks at me, for the first time he looks deep down into my eyes and then—not finding what he wanted to find—he pauses for a minute.
“You used to be such a sensitive kid,” he says. “So fragile, so delicate. What happened, son? You have changed.”
I look back at him, defiantly, and I say, “I sure hope so.”
“You are still angry,” he says. “Are you? After all these years, angry about mom?”
To which I say, “No, just about the piano.”
And he is about to say something, but I do not let him, because something in me flares up and I cry, “What happened to me, you ask? How dare you? What about you, how could you?”
He hesitates to ask, What? And so I go on to say, “What, do I have to say it? It was mom’s piano! She took such care of it... It was perfect, pristine! And now—”
A blush spreads across his face.
I curl myself even tighter in my cave, trying to hold myself, hold me from bursting in anger. And I scream, “I hate you! I know what you have done, what you’ve allowed her—this Anita of yours—to do. All that horrible, horrible damage!”
He glances in the direction of the kitchen door, wondering perhaps if Anita can hear me. And so I raise my voice even louder, “The ugly marks! The spills, I mean, from her tea cups! The scratches from her high heels! The dent, you know, from the weight of that woman.”
And I cover my face, wailing, barely able to say, “Mom will never come back now. She will never, never play here, not ever... All because of you... You have spoiled it, damn you... Spoiled everything for us both.”
It is then that he leans over, as much as his brace will let him, trying perhaps
to reach out to me. There is, I notice, a strange glint in his eyes.
And he says, “I understand. I know how you miss her. But try not to blame everything on me. Besides, mom has no need for it. The piano,” he says vaguely, “it doesn’t matter, really.”
I look at him, utterly in confusion, because this is different from what I wanted, which was some trace, some admission of guilt. It seems that—as usual—he has none.
“Mom can play,” he insists, “even without the piano. Yesterday,” he says, “in the hospital, I woke up. It must have been well after midnight, and for the first time in a long while my heart was pounding with such force! I was so alive and could hear everything with great clarity. Everything, son, was as clear as a dream! And then, then I could hear her. I am so blessed. She let me hear it.”
Apart From Love Page 2
